Читать книгу FALLEN IDOLS - Neil White - Страница 19

FOURTEEN

I sat in the car for a few minutes outside my father’s house.

It used to be the family home, when the sash bay-windows were painted pastel-clean and the lawn borders overflowed with colour. The house looked colder now, darker, the paintwork old and listless, flaking in places, the windows dusty and full of shadows.

I hadn’t spoken much with my father since I’d been back at Christmas and for a week last summer. He was working mostly, so I just slowed down for a while and then headed back south.

As I sat there, my childhood came rushing back at me. I could sense that freshness of early-morning spring mists that I never got in the city, or the bite of a November wind when it blew into the valley from the north. I saw myself cycling down here, a skinny kid with legs whirring over the pedals, or running and skipping along, kicking autumn leaves. Teenage screams and screeching tyres, the clunk of car doors on a Sunday morning as people went to church, a catholic town. I’d grown from boy to man along this road, and as I sat there it was as if nothing had changed.

But it was changing. People weren’t moving in any more. The young families wanted either the bright new boxes or original features. Those who had made their old house move with the times got lost as trends turned back full circle. The neighbours were still the same as before, but were wearing out like the houses. I had passed Bob Coleman outside his front door, watering plants. I remembered him as a large solid man, strong and powerful, callused and blackened hands from hard work. Now he was starting to bend a little, some of his bulk gone, and he moved with more shuffle than before.

I climbed out of my car and felt nervous, like I was expecting a fight. I don’t know why. My father and I hadn’t parted on bad terms. We’d just parted on no terms, and as I stood there, looking up at the house, I wondered whether he blamed me.

I didn’t go to the door. I went to the garage instead. I pulled up the door and smiled as I saw the sunlight blink back off the Calypso Red bonnet of the Triumph Stag, my dad’s pride and joy. When I was younger, I would polish it once a month for extra pocket money, and if the weather was good we would go for a drive, the windows down, the radio playing.

But that was a long time ago.

I looked up when I heard a door open into the garage. I saw my father standing there. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at me like I was a stranger. Then he nodded.

‘Jack.’ That’s all he said, but his accent sounded strong, blunt, flat.

‘Dad.’

‘You all right?’

I nodded. ‘Not bad.’

He turned to go into the house. I took that as a sign to follow.

As I walked in, I crinkled my nose at the musty smell. It was like all the bad habits of a man living alone were hanging in the air. I wandered through into the living room, a light and spacious area at the front of the house, south facing, so that the incoming shards of light caught the dust as I moved around the room. I sat down and looked around. Nothing had moved. It was as if I’d only ever gone into town, a short car trip or something, not moved to London. It was tidier than I remembered, but it lacked feminine warmth, those fragrant touches here and there. Johnny Cash album covers were strewn around the corner of the room, my father’s special place.

‘Do you want a beer?’

I looked round and saw him heading for the fridge. ‘Always.’

As he handed me mine, I pointed the bottle towards his clothes. He was in his dressing gown, just shorts and a vest underneath.

‘Working nights?’

He looked down. ‘You could have been a detective.’

I laughed, couldn’t help myself.

We both took a drink, smiled at each other for a while, and then he asked, ‘What brings you back here?’

‘I’ve got a deal for a feature on David Watts,’ I said.

His eyes flickered, so quick it was hard to see, but just as quick his look turned thoughtful and then he said, ‘Is this because of the Dumas shooting?’

‘It’s Johnny Nixon as well now.’

He looked surprised and went to sit down.

‘There’s been another one, in Manchester.’

He reached for the remote and I watched him as he flicked around the channels, looking for the news.

‘What are they saying?’ I asked, even though I could hear.

He watched for a while and then said, ‘They’re filling. Nothing to say, so they say it over and over, hoping it might turn into something.’

I went and stood behind him. He smelt familiar, like warm sleep. I couldn’t place it at first, but then I realised it was the smell of Sunday mornings, when I’d creep into my parents’ bed and watch television with my mother until my dad brought her breakfast.

My eyes flicked to the screen and I thought about Johnny Nixon. Thinking aloud, I asked, ‘What have they got in common?’ When my dad looked round, I pointed at the television. ‘Dumas and Nixon? What’s the connection?’

He scratched his head. ‘Does there have to be one?’

I shrugged. ‘You’d expect one. Must be a reason why they both got shot.’

He pointed at the television. ‘These things take planning, and two days running, that’s a quest for attention. But what if Nixon had stayed at home today? My guess is that he knew they had a routine, somewhere they would always be. Maybe that’s the connection.’

I nodded. It was a possible. ‘Maybe, but why go all the way to Manchester?’

‘Why not? He couldn’t stay in London. Too much heat.’

‘Okay, that’s fine, but why risk making a trail?’

He smiled. ‘A ransom.’

I looked at him curiously. ‘Ransom? What’s the demand?’

He looked back at me shrewdly. ‘Whoever he is, however little he thinks his life is worth, he’ll shut down football. That’s a lot of money. He could just about name his price right now.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘And this is a spree. So it will keep going until either he is caught or he kills himself.’

‘Does it have to be that way?’

He nodded. ‘With a spree, it’s always that way.’

Then we heard something that took us both by surprise. They suspected the perpetrator was a woman.

‘He’s a she,’ I said, my eyes wide. ‘Shit.’

My dad shook his head, ruffling his hair. ‘This is one weird dream. Firstly, you’re here, and now this. A woman doing all of this.’

I smiled. ‘No, you’re awake.’

He tugged on his lip, and then said, ‘Changes nothing, though.’

Then something occurred to me. ‘She’s still making a trail,’ I said. ‘She started in the south but came up north. Surprise might work at first, but it will be harder the more this thing goes on, so she will want somewhere she knows, so she can get away quickly if it goes wrong. So maybe she’s from the north?’

My dad smiled. ‘If she wanted a two-day shooting streak, she had to come up north once she’d been through London. A northern player would see it as a London problem and carry on as normal. In London, footballers’ routines will have changed immediately.’

That made me quiet. As did the thought that we’d spoken more in the last five minutes than we had in the preceding six months. It had been comfortable, and I found myself wanting to hear more from him, just so I could hear him think.